World's end
by Bruno
Summary: The war is over; The Dark Lord won. But the magical world isn't enough for him anymore-


Disclaimer: HP is the property of JK Rowling, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Warner Brothers. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. A/N: Thanks to Scarlet, Riibu and Sarah for looking it over.  
  
World's End  
  
He'd won.  
  
They had all sworn to bring him down. The Ministry, led by the blithering fool Fudge, Dumbledore and his motley crew of outlaws and half-breeds. Even among his own men: some had wormed their way behind his back and taken arms against him. To imagine that they had actually believed themselves capable of succeeding amused him no end, not to mention how entertaining it had been to break them afterwards.  
  
The traitor Wormtail had been an easy prey. Whimpering, he'd fallen to his knees on the ground the same second he saw his former Master; he'd dispatched of him quickly, the man was of no interest anymore. He was spent, used up. Now, his old enemy Potter had been a true pleasure to break, not his body, but his will –with his mind destroyed, the body soon followed. Dumbledore had stood before him, refusing to kneel until a blow to the back of his knees had sent him sprawling in the dust; shaking, he'd risen from the ground while the man behind him no longer bothered to hide his tears. Crying, Severus Snape had been ordered to kill the old man, and he complied. Of course he did.  
  
He'd won. But the euphoria of the victory did not last long, and with the British wizarding community beneath him he laid his eyes on the Muggle world. It was a big world, and the number of Muggles outnumbered them five thousand to one; even the Dark Lord saw the futility of each man fighting a whole army. His men found access for him through the heart of the British government, and a simple imperio did the rest of the job. Only three years after the great Wizarding War, the final war began, and Voldemort found it amusing to travel around the world, seeing the destruction up close.  
  
Even the Dark Lord was amazed upon watching the effects of an atom bomb. The vast power displayed before him held a beauty so incredible, so horrifyingly marvellous, it made his chest hurt and his eyes water –as he wiped the moisture from his eyes, he realised with astonishment that he was crying. To know that he, Voldemort, had managed to use the Muggles' own weapons to destroy them filled him with great satisfaction.  
  
It did not take long. Within a few days the continents of Northern America and Asia were gone, and all he had to do was to sit down and watch as the rest of the world went mad. Nation against nation, people against people, he enjoyed watching them, neighbours slaughtering neighbours in the struggle to survive. Finally it was evident to all men what he'd always known: that the Muggle races were nothing but animals. Had they united they would have been strong, they could even have fought back and won, but, like the mindless creatures they now proved themselves to be, they were too busy killing each other to save the future.  
  
*  
  
Voldemort himself kept his own court during these trials. For the first time in his long life, he was contented to just sit back and observe. Time worked for him, and in the privacy of his headquarters at Hogwarts he played God; a role that, at least in his mind, suited him perfectly well. Accompanied by his men, he dealt out punishments and awarded rewards for outstanding performances in the name of wizardry and magic, always with his jester by his side. Even though broken and half-mad from uncountable crucios, Severus Snape was still the only man who could make the Dark Lord laugh, be it from a snide comment about his earlier Death Eater colleagues or from his reoccurring bouts of anger and naked despair. He was an entertaining man, Snape; he'd always been the favourite.  
  
Then it happened. The thing that was not supposed to happen. It had never been a part of his plans, by Merlin, no...  
  
The earth shook. It moved beneath his legs as he walked through the Great Hall, the ancient walls around him seemed to sigh as they absorbed the pressure and the heat coming from the outside. During his travels all over the world he'd felt the same sensation, and he knew... It was so close, and when he let his mind reach out he felt the same pressure, the same heat, in three other places in Britain only. Something had gone terribly wrong, something that he'd not foreseen. How dared those Muggle pigs bomb his property? Britain was his!  
  
He sealed himself within the privacy of the library and refused to speak with any of his worried men, but he could not find the peace to sit down. Like a caged animal, he paced the large room, swearing and cursing at the Muggles responsible for this atrocious act –then he realised there were no more Muggles to blame. They were gone.  
  
He waited for the night to come, then summoned them all to the Great Hall, and appointed ten of his finest and most trusted men to do the job and go outside. Stern and grave, his men had stood ready to do his bidding, and after pledging their allegiance to him they walked out to Apparate from the outside of the Hogwarts grounds. All night the Dark Lord waited for their return, sitting in his room in the dungeon with his jester by his side, staring into the flames of the fireplace. As time went by, Severus fell asleep and the fire died down, but no men came back. The next evening, he ordered twenty men to abandon their places at Hogwarts to seek the truth about what had happened with the outside world; these were to go in pairs and protect each other from what dangers might lay ahead. Again, none of them came back. On the third night, he looked out on the little group of men that were left, and decided to wait.  
  
The owls that still lingered in the owlery were sent out, never to return.  
  
On the forth day, Voldemort himself walked out on the grounds, tired of sitting inside without knowing. He found nothing, literally nothing; the castle was stripped bare and only the original ancient building was left, the walls were gone, the greenhouses, the park. The Forbidden Forest had disappeared, only a thick layer of timber was left on the ground, as if a giant had walked past and trodden them all down in his way. When they saw their master leading the way, his men followed and slowly went outside to take in the devastation. With pale faces, they walked among the remains of the world as a cold rain started to fall. He went back in –there was nothing to see, after all.  
  
On the fifth day, five of his men did not show up for breakfast. All were later found in their beds, and delirious from fever they were moved to the hospital wing. By nighttime, another five had fallen ill, and the first dead house-elf was discovered in the former Ravenclaw common room. One of the sick was the castle nurse, and the remaining Death Eaters were left alone standing in a room filled with unknown potions, medicines and vials. A clever soul suggested bringing in Severus Snape, but the potions master had one of his fits of depression and did not so much as turn his head in their direction when his presence was requested. He was trapped by the ghosts in his mind, and not even a few well-placed crucios could wake him up from his stupor.  
  
*  
  
By the following morning, the Dark Lord found himself alone in the castle of Hogwarts. Those of his men that were not yet dead would soon follow their comrades, and that was apparent to them all; in clear moments they cried out for him, but he shrugged them off and left for his rooms in the dungeons. Silently, he'd sat in his chair, staring in front of him and sipping a glass of wine while Severus slept in the sofa like some giant pet. As the clock struck noon, Voldemort set his glass down on the table beside him with a loud clink that woke the sleeping man. Severus watched as the Dark Lord found his cloak in the wardrobe and got dressed, and when he walked out the door. Severus followed him.  
  
Taking a deep breath, Voldemort opened the front doors to Hogwarts castle only to be met by the same desolate sight as earlier, and hesitantly he walked out. Not hesitant from being afraid –he was immortal, there was nothing for him to fear; hesitant from not knowing where to go. Again it was raining, thin scattered drops slowly falling from the iron-grey sky, and Voldemort cast a shielding charm over himself before starting on the way down to Hogsmeade. Or rather, what had once been Hogsmeade.  
  
There was little more than the tattered foundations left of the houses in the village. Voldemort stood in the centre, where the Three Broomsticks should have been located, feeling reluctantly impressed by the total devastation around him. Though he could not see any reason for the death of his men, no warning signals alerted him of danger, either in the air or on the ground; it was completely incomprehensible that healthy men in the prime of their lives should just lie down and die.  
  
His ear caught the sound of feet in the dirt behind him, and he turned to see the potions master standing there. His thin white shirt was wet from rain, and the lank black hair hung down in his eyes as he stared at a point on the Dark Lord's shoulder. "It's the rain," he said, his eyes clearer than they had been for years. "It's all in the rain."  
  
"I have no idea what you're talking about," Voldemort said and turned around, once more taking in the lunar landscape. "Why am I talking to a mad-man? I've been surrounded by mad-men for too long."  
  
"You are the king of the mad-men, Lord," Severus replied in a flat voice. "Of course they would surround you; they are the moths, you're the flame."  
  
Angry, Voldemort turned back to him, wand clenched in his hand. "Do you really want to die, Snape?" The sound of his loud voice seemed to be thrown back at him from the hill above them. The urge to hit him with the Avada Kedavra was strong, but for the first time since his childhood, something held him back.  
  
"Honestly, Lord, I no longer care. I will die anyway, it's just a matter of time –if you killed me now it would be an act of mercy." His eyes were calm as they met the Dark Lord's red.  
  
Voldemort turned away with a snort. "I have no time for this." Without a word he Apparated, leaving the other man standing alone.  
  
*  
  
There was nothing left. London was gone, Dublin, Cardiff...even Little Hangleton, wiped off the map. For a while he continued Apparating, and some places he found houses still standing, cars waiting, but the only sight of life was a brief meeting with a cat in Dorset –terrified, the animal ran away between the empty ruins of the houses. He'd expected to find corpses or even living people, but if there was anyone at all, they hid from his eyes.  
  
He walked through the remains of the city of Edinburgh, the sound of stones and gravel cracking under the soles of his shoes as he looked up at the castle that should have been guarding the bustling streets below. But there was no castle, only the naked rock and the remains if the walls sticking up like rotting teeth, and no streets. The bomb must have landed close to the city, Voldemort mused; it seemed the centre of the touchdown was about fifty miles outside of what had once been Edinburgh. From what he understood, four of these Muggle weapons had fallen over his country, his home.  
  
It was all rather depressing. Not that he cared about Edinburgh, or London or any other place, but this had never been his intention. What is a Dark Lord with no one to rule over? The bitterness tasted sour like vinegar in his mouth; they had brought this on themselves, the Muggles. A fitting end indeed.  
  
Voldemort Apparated back to Hogsmeade.  
  
*  
  
The wind blew fiercely over the Scottish landscape, and the skies were heavy and grey with rain. The only sound was the ground beneath his feet and the wind's sad music. It was freezing, but the chilly air did not affect Voldemort. What bothered him was the complete silence in which he'd walked now for so many hours. The cold obviously bothered his old jester, though; Voldemort found him on the exact same spot where he'd left him, sitting in the foundations of the pub, shivering.  
  
"Why haven't you returned to Hogwarts?" Voldemort asked him. When he got no reply from the man, the anger flowed up in him again. "Answer me when I ask you, you filthy traitor! You want a Crucio? You want to wallow in pain to remind yourself you're still alive?"  
  
Severus did not reply, but raised his head to look him in the eye. There was nothing but resignation on his face, and the threat of torture did not seem to penetrate his foggy mind. Soon he lowered his eyes to the ground again to stare into the beaten soil in front of him.  
  
Voldemort looked at his blank face with contempt. "The only living soul left in Britain, and it had to be this..." Without any further comments, he turned around and walked back up the hill, aiming for the only safe haven left, Hogwarts. Like a dark mountain the castle loomed above him as he approached it, and slowly the raindrops again started falling.  
  
On shaky legs, Severus stood and followed him  
  
The Dark Lord's footsteps made an echo through the empty halls as he brought food from the kitchen down to the Slytherin dungeon. No house- elves were seen –even the kitchen was quiet, where they usually swarmed around like insects, chattering in their annoying, incoherent way.  
  
After putting the food aside in one of the rooms in the girl's dorm he returned to the former Slytherin common room, noticing that Severus was back; curling up in front of the cold fireplace, he was apparently oblivious to the fact that the flames were gone. With a casual wave of his wand, Voldemort lit the fire before walking out. If Severus was the only thing he had left...  
  
He paced the halls for a while, meeting no one but Ravenclaw's Grey Lady on his way; the ghost fluttered and disappeared through the walls as he came. The walls themselves sighed to him, but he averted his face and would not listen. After a while they turned silent.  
  
He stopped by the hospital wing to look at his men; quietly, he walked beside their beds to take in their faces, white against white linen. The room reeked of sickness and death, and no matter where he turned his head the stench was upon him, settling around him as if death itself had decided not to acknowledge the Dark Lord's presence. It was infuriating, maddening! Raging, he drew his wand and cast a blasting charm hard into the wall above the rows of beds, making the wall shake and dust sift down over the dead and dying like snow.  
  
"What's the matter with you?" he roared, and once more let his wand cut the stale air. This time the blasting charm hit one of the beds, and the violent shake made a hand fall from the sheets to hang limp beside the mattress. For a moment he just stared at the long white fingers, not raising his head to see whom the hand belonged to.  
  
A choking sound reached him, and he found Avery in the bed behind him, still alive. After watching the man's struggles to speak, he lifted his wand. "Avada Kedavra." There was a flash of gratitude in Avery's eyes before they went out for good. With a feeling of emptiness, Voldemort left the hospital wing.  
  
*  
  
It was night when Voldemort spoke to Severus again. He was sitting in his armchair, staring into the flames with the wineglass in his hand, when he said, "We will go abroad. Tomorrow at dawn."  
  
"I'm not going."  
  
Voldemort turned to the other man, his eyes furious. "What did you say? It was not a question, it was an order. We leave at dawn."  
  
"I'm not going." He repeated the words in his soft voice, a voice now feeble with fever.  
  
Voldemort recognised the symptoms, but waved the comment away with a sneer. "What's the matter with you, then? Nothing wrong I can see. You're going, so you better be prepared."  
  
"It's in the rain," Severus replied, his sweaty face illuminated by the flickering flames. "I don't know what it is, poison, radiation, virus... It's in the rain. I signed my death sentence when I followed you outside. As a matter of fact, I've signed it three times." He started laughing. "Today was the third time I've chosen to follow you, Lord, and it's the third that counts, isn't it?"  
  
Voldemort's face turned white from anger. "Are you laughing at me?" He tore the wand out from its scabbard and shot a Crucio in the direction of the other man. Severus did not even cry out as the wall of pain hit him, and to his surprise, Voldemort found no longer any joy in watching the twisting body on the floor. He lifted the curse, and turned to walk away.  
  
"Yes, kill me," Severus whispered with bloodstained lips. "You know you want to –you've wanted it for years. Come on, you pathetic little monster, finish the job. You pitiful little Lordling...finish the fucking job."  
  
"I have better things to do with my time than squashing bugs," Voldemort replied coldly and walked out.  
  
"Oh yes, I nearly forgot," Severus spat after him. "You have a kingdom to run, haven't you? Where are all your pawns, Lordling? Where are the knights and bishops? Are you satisfied with what you've done?"  
  
*  
  
Severus died the next day, coughing and choking. Voldemort sat beside him for hours, not speaking, half gloating the traitor's painful death; yet something stirred inside the Dark Lord as he watched the man take his last breath –an emotion he'd forgotten and could no longer place. Taking a last look upon the man's still features, he gathered his clothes and left Hogwarts, never to come back.  
  
Once more, he travelled across Britain in search of signs of the wizarding community. When he found nothing he Apparated to France, and stayed for a while in a ghost town in Provence, because it pleased him to do so. Then he continued, searching for what he did not know –he could not even determine whether or not he was searching anymore, deep down he realised there would be nothing to find. Sometimes he would come upon a suitable place and stay there for a month or two, but in the end he always moved on. Everywhere he went the empty houses mocked him, their empty black windows following him as he walked by.  
  
As the years went by, the houses crumbled to dust as they were reclaimed by the surrounding nature; plants grew in the foundations, insects and fungi ate the woodwork and tall grass and moss covered the bricks and stones. Slowly, the birds came back on the sky –not many, but they were there, and deep down he found their noise satisfying. The animals were still missing though; the only mammals he saw were scrawny rats that no longer bothered hiding from him, but came scurrying around his legs, looking for food when he made camp.  
  
Food was another matter. There was little or next to nothing around to eat, and his body, already skeletal thin, dried up and became thin as a twig and equally dense. Being immortal, he would never die from it, but he starved just as any other human being would. The first year was the worst, as the pain from his belly clouded his head and made him tired, but when the year passed he got used to it and his body stopped yearning for pleasures that could never be satisfied.  
  
Each day had to be taken as it came; the days, months and years slipped away from him. He no longer had any idea of which year it was, he followed the seasons as they passed and returned in a never ending cycle of cold and warmth. The periods of warmth became shorter –for each winter that passed, it seemed spring had to struggle harder to get a grip on the nature.  
  
After uncountable seasons, a winter without end came. In futility, he waited for the sun to start heating the hills around him; but the sun hid the warmth behind a thick fog that never lifted, and the birds went silent and flew away.  
  
Once more Voldemort had to break up and move towards the south. Standing in Gibraltar, he looked back at the land behind him. Europe, torn to pieces, a wasteland filled with ghosts and dreams. His work. Somewhere deep down in his soul something broke and he had to sit down, his feet could no longer carry him. For the first time, he saw the beauty in the landscape stretched out in front of his feet, and the naked silence roared at him from the mountains in the horizon.  
  
What have you done, Tom?  
  
His mother's voice. He'd never heard it before but somehow he knew, like in a dream where every fragment is as clear as day and you just know. She spoke to him now, her voice soft and friendly and so terribly, terribly sad, her loneliness weighing down upon him and making it difficult to breathe.  
  
*  
  
For an eternity he walked through the sand, no longer caring where his feet carried him; he followed wherever they took him. He did not sit down to rest until he fell facedown in the sand, and when he managed to do so, he rose and continued. Forward, always forward, because if he sat still he would hear his mother's voice, her soft sigh upon the desert wind that never waned. The voice brought pictures to his mind, pictures from a childhood that never was and never could have been –the images of warm eyes and a comforting lap to hide in. But as he raised his head, all he could see were barren dunes and the wind blowing grains of sand like confetti over his dried out body.  
  
As if blinded, he staggered forward in the sand, unaware of the piercing sun and the icy nights that came and went. One evening, his eyes, usually fixated at the sand, came upon a large block of stone, and he lifted his head and gazed up at a large pyramid. The first building he'd seen since...he did not know, time was but a haze, months perhaps, maybe years. He lifted a shaky hand and laid it against the stone, feeling a slight tingling against his fingers. This building was protected by magic in its purest form, but he could feel the magic slowly fading, minute by minute.  
  
He walked around it and found an entrance in the stone, a dark hole leading the way to the depths within.. He entered and felt his way through the darkness with his hands touching the walls, until he came to a large room, brightly lit by flickering torches. On a throne sat a bearded man all dressed in white, quietly resting his head against his hand as he observed the Dark Lord entering his castle. This was not a human being –Voldemort had met him before, during his quest for immortality.  
  
"Finally, you arrive," said the god without moving his lips, without moving at all. Was it his thoughts that entered Voldemort's mind?  
  
"Yes," he replied, sinking to the floor.  
  
"I told you." The god turned his eyes away from the pathetic creature on his floor.  
  
"No more," Voldemort whispered.  
  
The god Osiris turned his eyes back at him, his eyes sad. "You are the only one. If you go, there will be no memory left of the human race, and no memory of the old gods. If you die, I die, little man –I can only exist as long as a living being believes in me."  
  
"Please," Voldemort whispered. Or was it Tom?  
  
The god beheld him, and slowly traced his beard with long fingers. Then he looked away, stared into nothing for a long time before he nodded. "Yes..." With a sigh, the god rose from his seat and walked down the stairs to his throne with feeble footsteps; weak he was, the once so powerful god now shaky as an old man. "Yes, for once we agree. My people are gone, and I no longer serve any purpose."  
  
The man on the floor shivered as Osiris lay his hand upon his head. "Look at me, little man," the god told him, and Voldemort complied. His gaze seemed to fill the god with strength, and Osiris started chanting his soft spells. Slowly, Voldemort's powers faded and he lay down on the floor, filled with a strange peace. The sensation was not uncomfortable.  
  
*  
  
Osiris watched the man's face for a long time, his new-found strength soon dwindling into nothing. Quickly, before he became too weak, he lifted his hand towards the entrance, ordering the stones to seal off the chamber forever. 


End file.
